Every November I retreated to the Isle of Palms (South Carolina) to immerse myself in writing.
For a week I am a Hermit, sequestered from the world so I can concentrate on whatever story is occupying the major space in my brain. I ignore emails, let the phone battery die and pretend I don't have a day job.
Typically, my writing space is a deep, wide porch that opens onto a heated swimming pool, sand dunes and the ocean. Sometimes I write. Sometimes I drift in daydreams. Sometimes I walk along the beach, feet in the surf.
The week is hosted by the Low Country Romance Writers, and 10 writers share the house. We write all day, meet up for supper about 6 p.m. and then hang and chat. Or if the story calls, we go back to work. There are no rules or expectations for the week, which suits me just fine because I have too many expectations and rules the rest of the time.
But in addition to the uninterrupted writing time and the beach mere steps from my door, the friendships that I make and renew each year make Isle of Palms special.
In many ways, only writers can understand another writer, and only a true friend who writes can understand why I didn't notice she ate breakfast beside me because I'd hit the writing zone.
Friendship, writing to my heart's content and the ocean lulling me to sleep each night. Sigh. Heaven.